I Hate Myself For Loving Cookie (or, "Dude, Where's My Larynx?")

Yesterday, suddenly, we sort of had a cat. It started lounging around our doorstep. Like we'd been old friends since grade school or something. Just chilling in the shade, all, "Oh, hey bro, how's it? Haven't seen you since, you know, never. Love your digs."

The neighbors were out by the pool, celebrating Easter with chlorine and SPF 50. Me and Shannon walked over, and the cat followed. What's the deal with this cat, that's what we said. And the neighbors said, oh, that's Cookie. Turns out the French family that moved to Australia a month or two ago owns Cookie, and Australia disallows pets from entering the country until six months have elapsed since the owner's entry. So, you move to Australia, and your pet cools its heels in wherever you used to live for six months, then, no problem, c'mon over Cookie. I have never understood Australia, ever since the whole penal colony thing, because the word "penal" makes me uncomfortable. And now this cat thing. Thanks, Australia.
Cookie waiting for the situation on the ground to change.

The neighbors said the people who moved into French Family's old villa told French Family they'd take care of Cookie for six months, then ship her to Perth. Only when they said they would "take care" of Cookie, I think what they meant was "not let Cookie into our house but sometimes wave at her when we walk by."

It's no surprise then that Cookie has had enough. She is putting her paw down. So she ran away, like Joan Jett, except Cookie doesn't hate herself, for loving me or for any other reason. And now Cookie hangs around my porch.

I'd like to take Cookie in, you know, to be there for her since Australia is being all obstructionist. But I have kids that are allergic to cats. Also, Cookie sounds weird. She tries to meow, but I think maybe she had her larynx removed? Some families declaw, maybe French Family de-larynxes? Nothing really comes out when Cookie talks. And we're like, "What was that Cookie? Cat got your tongue?" And Cookie is like, "I am considering swimming to Australia rather than listen to this drivel."

But in spite of our best efforts to keep Cookie outside, Cookie has breached our fortifications on more than one occasion over the past couple days. This is because we have a weak link in our family -- a Benedict Arnold, if you will -- and the turncoat's name is Tess. She knows Cookie is on the porch, and she knows how to open the front door. So, sometimes Cookie gets inside. Savannah found Cookie patiently sitting outside the bathroom when she finished up and opened the door. There is something mildly creepy about that, even for cats. So Cookie got thrown out.

I have tried reasoning with Cookie, since I am the cat person in the family. "Cookie," I tell her, "you are not part of our family." "----," says Cookie unblinkingly, unable to actually make noise. I think maybe she doesn't understand, so I say, "Cookie you are nice, but it's just not working out. It's not you, it's us." Cookie just brushes up against my legs. Sigh. I guess we'll just have to tie up Tess and starting using the back door. I see no other viable alternatives that don't include artillery.